There is always a balance in life, between the heavens and earth,God and humans,the sacred and profane. Many times by such hit-and-miss borders,designed through the seen and the unseen,we cannot discover the sourceof our happiness and misfortunes,our joy and sorrows.Always unable to manage life’s seasons,we enjoy some halcyonian ones blended with others so disturbing. There are tragedies on the ground floor,made by incautious people, not prevented by incautious guardian angels,being healed by the Almighty, many timesby our own human brothers, some of them the most unthinkable ones.We follow fighting everyday vicissitudes,joining hands with all of our friends,the visible and the hidden ones,none of them must we ever dismiss.

Our Lord’s Grace

My accountant says that for each creditthere must be mandatorily one debit,and next to the assets it must be shownits corresponding liabilities.Economists say there is no such thingas a free lunch and to each profit fatallywill correspond an equal loss.So have been moved the heavy wheelsthat carry our chariot through the ages.But we know that our Creator’s accountsdo not close like this.All of us are His lovely sons and His gracecovers and heals all days of our earthly life,without any of our known limitations,without our proper acknowledgmentand regardless of our faith or merit.We are His sons and His is this world,ours the grace of so unquestioning love.

Nocturnal Refugees-After “Night Hawks," by Edward Hopper-

Night that brings with itself lack of love,hesitation on living, even fear, as escaping and fleeing from world’s demands.Night passing far away from others not long ago,paraphrased by so many poets always praising,since ancient times, beauty of mutual warmthand human complicity.People hidden in a furtive safety of a dull bar,unable to come out of their shells and share some good news, perhaps hidden desires orlove secrets, yet distrust and uncertainties.Yet unable to reach that souls’ communion,entire and unique humans’ purpose,fearful to break supposed barriers,walls and fences that separate us.Where the firmness of our ancestors, never afraid to penetrate dangers of dark and haunted nights?Where the joy and smiles, where the words that had spoken their dreams and drawn their desires?Words and desires that built the world they bequeathed uswhich we are about to lose, deaf and dumb for its beauties.Unhappy and disinterested, we will transfer to our sonsonly aridity and dryness, our aloofness and our despair.

Mr. Ferreira, 73, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese. He has been published in venues like Right Hand Pointing, The Lake, Spirit Fire Review, The Provo Canyon, Red Wolf Journal,Whispers, Indiana Voice Journal, Synesthesia, Algebra of Owls, and some others. Ferreira lives in a small town, Formiga (MG), with wife, three sons and a granddaughter and is trying to publish his first poetry book by 2017. He began to write at age 67 after retirement as a bank manager. He was recently nominated for The Pushcart Prize for his poem “Eating Pain.”